


cold snap

by millagross



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Vignette, remus/sirius if you have your glasses on, sirius is ambiguously brown, tw for trauma and depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 04:29:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16339841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millagross/pseuds/millagross
Summary: Surprisingly, Moony's cereal tastes worse than the rats. (A series of vignettes about Sirius laying low at Lupin's)





	cold snap

   

Sirius is chilled to the bone when he arrives at Remus’s house. He’s always been a cold person though, so he doesn’t mind it too much. He’s worried about what will happen when the door opens, because he hasn’t interacted with Remus in 13 years. Yeah, they’d hugged like saps that night at the Shrieking Shack, but they hadn’t really _talked._ The years they spent apart weren’t very pleasant for either of them anyways. Remus seems to want to continue that streak though, because he shoves Sirius in the bathroom as soon as he sees him, and leaves to make another bed. When Sirius finally gets out of the bath, he’s gone. There’s no sleep to be got that night.

His life is feeling a bit odd, but maybe that’s because Sirius hasn’t really been living. It’s kind of relieving, to sleep in a bed, and take showers, and actually eat real food. Cave life does not do wonders for the body, as he soon finds out. His bones still stick tight on his skin, and Sirius still feels cold. Remus is out working his job, (Sirius suspects it’s _jobs,_ but Remus doesn’t want to share) so he just lounges around all day, sleeping and trying to compose letters to Harry.

Harry. Sirius misses him so much already. He wishes he could tell Harry more about himself and James and Lily and Remus and Pe-but there’s no time to talk, with all the nonsense Harry has to deal with, and Sirius’s...tricky legal situation. Sirius worries though, about Voldemort, and the Death Eaters, and that terrifying debacle at that graveyard. The one letter Sirius has gotten from Harry is short and hollow, and he feels his throat tightening. When his hands start to shake too, Sirius puts down the paper. He’ll try again tomorrow.

                                                                 

 

                                                                          

It’s been a week and dinner that night is a quiet affair. Remus is perpetually playing with his food. He eventually tries to initiate conversation, but he keeps on trailing off or dismissing the subject. This continues to go on and on, with Remus stopping his words every two or three minutes, and Sirius slowly getting more and more annoyed.

At his fifth attempt at a complete sentence, Sirius blurts out, “Don’t know what to say, huh? Bet you’re embarrassed. You won’t even _look_ at me. Not like I did anything worthwhile this past week anyway.” The only sound then is the rain popping on the roof; Sirius slowly slinks back down into his chair. Remus is still picking at his meal. “You’re doing fine, Sirius.” Sirius closes his eyes and thinks of something else to say. “Alright-what are _you_ doing nowadays either? Still working as a muggle clerk?” Remus’s eyes twitch in his strange way, and Sirius immediately regrets his question. “Yes, actually. Odd jobs here and there. Dumbledore’s been having me do work for the Order too. Can’t really do much when you’re...you know.” Sirius actually didn’t expect to be answered, so he sits there like a fool. He turns to the window, but he can hear the scraping of a chair and soft footsteps. “Go to bed, Padfoot.” Sirius wants to throw Remus’s uneaten food at his retreating back. Though, at least they had a conversation.

                                                              

 

 

He can see the stars. While he was There, there were small holes on the walls, where you could look out, but it was a pathetic excuse for a window. No light ever reached There, anyways. He can map them out from memories of learning from a tutor, then later at Hogwarts; his nasty cousin’s namesake, Lepus’s leg, Columba’s wings. Sirius the _star_ burns brightly at him, as if it knows that a man stands underneath, with eyes as scorching and silver as itself. His head turns to a constellation a little further away, and he feels his breathe catch, but he doesn’t know why. Regulus used to be a nut for astronomy, even when they were kids. Said it always was his favorite subject, even though there wasn’t any magic involved. Used to tear up when he saw pretty sunsets, too. Such an idiot. _The lion’s heart._ How ironic.

Sirius always hated that business though. It brings back memories of Grimmauld Place, of his mother screeching, his father looking away, and his brother weeping behind him. Reminds him of their ridiculous pompousness. Naming themselves after stars as if they were as important, as bright, as steadfast. Ha! Sirius feels a chill down his back, and he closes the windowpane.

That night is colder than the rest. There must be something wrong, because it’s not even Autumn, and yet Sirius is shivering under the blankets. It’s almost as if they’re there again, passing by, making him see James and Lily and the Order and Regulus and his mother and those muggles-so Sirius slips into a new form, and tells himself that all thin people feel cold, it’s natural, but even he doesn’t believe it.  

 

 

 

 

“Going out would be good for you.” Sirius _almost_ catches the shovel Remus spells to fly to him; he picks it up and stares at it. “What?” “I have a garden in the back. No one will see you. You’ll be fine.” “Why...gardening?” “I never said you had to. Just, uh, think about it.” Sirius feels a flush climb up his cheeks. It makes him feel like a child. He waits for the sound of Remus sighing and walking out the door to work, before he slowly creeps to the backyard. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s antsy. It’s a rather ugly thing, with two little wooden boxes of dirt where he thinks flowers are supposed to grow. Weeds creep all around and inside, breaking the borders of the box. There's some muggle trash strewn around too. Remus must’ve not cleaned it up since he got there. The owner _before_ Remus must’ve not cleaned it up either. This is more fit for an animal like Buckbeak than anything.  Sirius vaguely notices the birds have stopped making noise, with the exception of one that seems to sing in exasperation. “Well. Me too.”

Remus finds him later in the tub, washing the dirt out of his fingernails.

                                           

 

 

Peter’s sitting in front of him, drawing a picture.  He always liked to draw. Sirius wants to grab him by the shoulders, sock him, curse him, hurt him, for everything- but he doesn’t. His body won’t move from where it’s stationed. And then Sirius realizes, this is a memory. Yes, he remembers this scene in the Common Room, although some things have changed:  something he can only describe as green snow is falling outside, his fingernails are a buttercup yellow, and Peter’s eyes aren’t the same color. He can’t tell what it is now, but he knows it’s not blue. No one’s in the Common Room either, but he can still hear voices murmuring. There’s also a pervading sense of cold; Sirius curls up tighter on the couch.

“Pete?” “Yeah?” “...What’s your favorite season?” Peter looks up from his drawing, (which Sirius notes is of a fat moon) and he sees Peter’s eyes: dark and grey, the color of There, the color of an angry storm, the color of the Dementor’s hands, and Sirius’s heart starts to race. “Winter.”

He wakes up.

 

 

 

Before he knows it, he’s sneaking down to Remus’s room. It makes him feel anxious, but Sirius is getting colder and colder. And he needs to reminded that at least one of his friends isn’t dead. “Sirius? Are you okay? Are there-” “Nah. Can I, um, come in? I’m uh, a little bit cold.” Merlin, he’s so bloody stupid. Remus stares him for around ten seconds before opening the door further and steps back into bed. “Is that a yes?” “I should think so.” Remus sounds annoyed. “I’m sorry, my social perception is a bit rusty nowadays.” Low blow, but Sirius isn’t in the best mood. He scrambles on the bed in dog form, because he thinks he would combust if he had to be rubbing shoulders and getting all cuddly with Moony. Regulus used to do this when they were kids, if it was a bad storm, or Bella had told him a scary story, or he had a nightmare. Along that vein. Sirius never even thought of doing the same with their parents, who usually were the _cause_ for such night terrors. And when he was older, James used to come talk to him if he wasn’t sleeping well, from odd dreams or eating a little too many Chocolate Frogs before bed. It was all pointless ramblings of two teenagers, but Sirius appreciated it. He misses it.

Padfoot’s face looks up to see Remus. His face is less wrinkled and more mellow now. He’s still frowning at something though, and Sirius curls himself around Remus’s body, just to soothe him. God knows it relaxes Sirius just as much, though.  He notices the curtains are closed, (to not let in the moon?) but light trickles in anyways, bathing them in silver-white.

They could’ve never done this in the war. No, he and Remus could barely stand even looking at the other back then. When was the last time they had smiled at each other? Thinking about it now is almost funny, because it’s truly a testament of just how bloody foolish Sirius was. If he hadn't trusted that _rat-_ maybe if he’d been a little smarter, been a little kinder, been a little more like James, they wouldn’t be in this mess.  But for all Sirius knows, they would’ve been both dead by now anyway.

The two of them wake up around the same time. Remus blinks at Sirius slowly, and he gets a soft, syrupy look on his face. Then it’s gone, and Sirius feels a different kind of cold when Remus leaves the room.

 

 

 

He’s so pale. Sirius was never as dark-skinned as James, or even as Regulus, but to see himself in the mirror so pasty, so _white_ ...it unnerves him. He certainly looks less like his cousins, but that doesn’t do anything to make him feel better. With the long hair too? He looks like his mother. Sirius feels like gagging. He remembers they used to make fun of Narcissa for not looking much like the rest of them. Karma’s really out to get him, huh? Resentment curls in his stomach; for his family, for the war people like them dragged him into, for what they still do, what they say. And even with his new pallid skin, he can't ever leave them. The blood that runs in his veins will always be dark, dark, dark, through and through. They'll follow him forever, haunting his mind and his body like ghosts. He feels a surge of heat, of _magic_ slide through his arm, and the frame of the mirror cracks. He worries about it breaking, but Sirius is still looking at his reflection. Pale and cold, he is. Like snow, like Winter.

  


 

It hits him while he’s in the yard, working on the little garden that actually does seem a little more attractive now. Voldemort’s back. Voldemort’s back and the Death Eaters are running amok and Harry’s still in trouble. He sees all the funerals, all the death. It was something he recognized when Dumbledore told him, but he hasn’t understood it until now. Sirius feels like something is choking him. He doesn’t want Harry to die. He doesn’t want Remus to die. He doesn’t want anyone to die. And he’s still useless. The only he can do is not lose his mind. People are risking their lives and he’s sitting in a house all day doing nothing. Sirius is on the ground, yelling and digging his hands into the dirt. Everything feels so loud, and cold, and sharp-

He feels warm hands wrap around him and recognizes Remus saying his name until he relaxes. When he stops struggling, he tries to wipe the wetness of tears away, but there is none. Perturbing. “Sirius...” “Remus,” he says just as somberly and lets out a weak laugh; it makes even him cringe. He lets out a long breath. “I just wish...I could do more…” “I know you’re worried about everything. We all are. It won’t go like last time.” “Won’t it?” Remus doesn’t answer, but his face becomes more worn with that sentence. “I know what Dumbledore said about not writing to Harry. But...I’m going to send a letter anyways.” He needs to talk to Harry. Make sure he’s alright. Remus, always the stickler for Dumbledore’s rules, raises an eyebrow. Sirius puts his hands on the other man’s shoulders and pretends not to wince when Remus almost instinctively flinches away. “I’m just going to ask what his favorite flowers are.” If nature was anything to go by, daffodils. Lily’s broken body flashes before his eyes and he pushes it out of his mind. He feels better, but something nags at his mind. It doesn’t matter.

 

 

 

He’s flying up towards the sky, stretching his body towards the bright blue. He hadn’t flown since he was on Buckbeak. And he loves Buckbeak, but a hippogriff isn’t really comparable to a broom. Sirius is aware of another body soaring next to him and laughing. “You’re so slow, Sirius. C’mon!” As they’re racing, Sirius shouts, “What are we chasing after?!” Mystery Flyer sends their broom off in a spurt to the clouds and yells down “Anything you want!” What? Sirius rides up even higher, and even with the cold biting at his skin, he feels so content. Why’d he never join the Quidditch team? Well, he remembers breaking most of the team’s bones at try-outs. That might've had something to do with that. As both of them slow down, Mystery Flyer turns around, and Sirius feels his heart drop into his stomach. “Reg?”

His little brother smiles at him, and plays with a snitch between his bony fingers. “I won!” Sirius, despite his surprise, (and his confusion on how the game they’re playing works) frowns. “You look like shite.” He’s just making a mean joke, but as he looks closer, his jab is accurate. His brown skin is pallid, giving an ugly yellow look to Regulus’s face. His eyes having water dripping out of them, but they look like no tears Sirius has ever seen. And when Regulus talks, more of that nasty water spills out of his mouth.

Regulus says nothing for a while, and Sirius draws his arms around himself. It really is cold up here. Then: “Remember when you broke one of my favorite records? Oh, I hated you after that.” Yeah, Sirius remembers. Regulus looked as if he wanted to disown Sirius himself at that point, and it had taken a couple of galleons for Reg to stop being pissy about it. Regulus murmurs something under his breath, but Sirius can’t catch it. “What?” “The last lines of one of the songs, in English. I thought of that, the night before.” “Excuse me?” But Reg just shakes his head again and smiles. “Don’t play stupid. Remember it.” Again they sit in companionable silence, but with every second Sirius starts to shiver more and more. “You should wear a coat if you’re so cold.” “I’m fine.” Regulus narrows his eyes and steers his broom closer to Sirius. “Lily would tell you to get a coat.” Sirius’s feels heat flood his body, for Regulus to even dare talk about Lily. For him using her against him.“Fuck you,” he spits, “How would you know anything about Lily?” “More than you think, Sirius.” But Sirius doesn’t understand. He shakes his head. “You’re dead. Lily’s dead. You aren’t real. This,” and he gestures around them, “is made up by me.” Regulus rolls his eyes and looks straight at Sirius, with more of that ugly water dripping down his face. “Just cause it’s in your head doesn’t mean it’s not real. Like love and shit. ” But before Sirius can answer, Reg’s darting away again. He almost falls off his broomstick trying to catch up, but his brother’s dripping robes are out of his reach. Always out of reach.

When Sirius wakes up, he feels wetness around his sheets. Whether from sweat, tears, or something else entirely.

 

 

 

“What was it like, in those twelve years?” Remus seems to deliberate this for a minute or two, then answers: “Bad.” They’re lying in Remus’s bed again, and the fact that Remus can’t look at him in the dark soothes Sirius. “That’s not an answer. C’mon, Lupin.” Remus’s head whips around and the whites of his sharp teeth are glowing in...a snarl? But Remus’s tense body relaxes, and the moment is gone as quickly as it came. “There’s nothing to tell you, Sirius.  All of my friends were gone. I’m a werewolf. I’m gay and it was the Eighties.” A sad little laugh. “There’s nothing interesting to say, other than I managed to get around a lot, from all the jobs I needed to take.” There’s a pregnant pause and Sirius can feel Remus’s stubble scratching his arm. “It was...hm...it was regular life.” Sirius can’t relate. All he remembers was school, the war, and There. Was maturing ever an option? They wait in the silence for a little longer. Sirius is still shivering, but Remus shifts away from him and everything goes quiet.

Then he thinks of another thing; the night in the Shrieking Shack. He remembers they were going to kill Wormtail, of course, but he remembers how _aloof_ Remus had been. And that doesn’t bother him but...what had Remus thought of him in those twelve years? He must’ve hated him...if Remus had found him before he found the Map, what would’ve happened? The thought of Remus hating him, of wanting to kill him, makes him sick. Sirius deserves it.  He looks over then, because Remus has sat up to stare at the window. It’s hard to see, because the two of them are shrouded in the inky black of a new moon night. “I missed you more than you think. ” Silence, then a chuckle. “I’m not a Legilimens; I can read you pretty well, Sirius.” “Glad I didn’t really do it,” Sirius murmurs, “I couldn’t imagine you being left alone.” He wasn’t kidding when he’d asked about those twelve years. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” “Not believing you...I should’ve known.” Sirius’s mouth opens and closes like a fish; he scoots over to where Remus is sitting, but he doesn’t know what to say. It’s not his fault, and Sirius knows it isn’t. Though he can’t pretend that there’s not some ugly and bitter part of him that _does_ hate Remus for not believing him, that still can’t trust him because of the war before. But Sirius chokes these thoughts down and wraps his arms around Remus’s slight body. They sit silently together until dawn, watching the glittering sky.

 

 

 

James seems to pop up more and more in Sirius’s mind. Only menial things, but nevertheless accompanied by a dull throb in his chest.  The Muggle neighborhood is a quaint grey thing, with ramshackle houses, and trash and wire littered on the streets, but James would find it fascinating, knocking on doors and talking so loudly he’d wake the neighbors. James would’ve laughed at Remus’s wardrobe, but would sneak galleons in his shoes so he could buy new clothes. James would’ve entered into a foolish dance whenever he heard that old muggle music on the radio.

Sirius is washing the dishes when his mind puts a familiar whisper in his head. _Tsk. The dishes? Never thought you’d mar your precious pureblood hands._ “You bastard. I’ve done plenty of chores.” What is he doing? _I’m guessing you’re doing this behind Moony’s back. Don’t think he thinks you’re in the right state to even fold your own clothes._ “Considering I’m talking to you, I’m probably not.” _Arse._ “Thanks though. It’s…rather lonely here. Well. No shite obviously, but...I’m sad.” Merlin.

It’s easy, to crack the mirrors, and wish to fight, and to talk to dead brothers, but it’s hard to truly react to it. Being in There had left him so hollow.  Everything dulled into a heavy weight on his back. But now there’s a stabbing pain in his throat and he feels his vision getting blurry. Sometimes, sometimes, Sirius almost feels like he’s in a dream, because everything seems so transparent, as if he could fan the cloudy memories away and wake up back There. Or as if is this not real, and James will squeeze him around the chest and this will fade away. Maybe Sirius himself isn’t real, only a shard of imagination in someone else’s mind. But Christ, everything hurts. It’s like the memory of Halloween, all those years back, where Sirius had thought he would’ve died gazing at James’s and Lily’s bodies. He feels sorry for all of them, James and Lily, Harry, Remus, Regulus. He even feels sorry for bloody _Wormtail,_ because for all he knows, Peter died on that night too. Funny, how being tortured for 12 years took more emotions out of you than it gave. But when he feels the tickle of tears cooling on his face, that’s when he starts to laugh. Sirius cackles like he’s out of his mind (which he probably is), because he’s actually feeling _something._ It’s so nice, to cry and hurt and mourn, anything, because Sirius knows he’s alive, he's _alive_ , and not just in some wild fever nightmare conjured up in the depths of his mind! It feels as if he has been doused in ice water, cold and painful, but glorious.  He would rather be sliced and crushed and bloody than be suffocated in the numb of There, yes!

“Dear God Sirius, are you alright?” He drops the plate he was washing to whirl around at a rather disturbed Remus. It shatters into dozens of tiny pieces, and while looking at the floor, Sirius crushes it slowly underfoot, and focuses on the crunch of the thing. “I'm...fine. Better than fine, actually. Feeling great!” “You're weeping.” “That's the thing! Never thought I'd do it again, huh?” Remus lets out a low moan, slides down to the floor in exhaustion, and narrows his eyes at his slowly curling hands for a long while. Sirius grins so widely it burns, remembering something from ages past. “Can't you make your pupils go smaller? Yeah, that used to kill me. I was fascinated with it. Used to make you do it, and would watch for hours.”

And as he’s looking at the broken plate, he comes up with a perfect little image in his head.  Sirius is resting his head on Remus's thighs as he watches him read, while Remus’s dark pupils go large and small endlessly. Peter’s sitting near them somewhere, drawing James as he contorts his body into various poses, while Lily scolds them, but only teasingly. All the while the melodies from Reg's songs play, wafting through the room and igniting a fire in Sirius’s heart, blazing through his body in a rush of warmth. A portrait from a blink in time, painted with children who have not yet known the horrors of war, as if sketching a hand or not understanding a word were the biggest troubles they would have to face.

 

  
  
And when Sirius is stuck in a place even more horrid than There, where even Harry’s smiles and Remus’s looks can’t warm him, he holds onto that image and _hopes._

end.

  
   

**Author's Note:**

> press f to pay respects for sirius's mental health


End file.
